


memories of us

by snakesinspace



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Owen Carvour Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, curt has trauma, cynthia houston is done with this shit, ig??, kind of, owen has trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakesinspace/pseuds/snakesinspace
Summary: alternative title: curt and owen need therapy ffswhat happens when curt decides not to kill owen? trauma
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73





	1. i need you like i need a gaping head wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i love you like an alcoholic by the taxpayers :)

There was a hole in Curt’s mouth. A small, easily overlooked hole, located on his lower jaw where one of his first premolars should be. This small, miniscule, infinitesimal hole was swallowing Curt whole. Sat in a very familiar sick bay at the C.I.A main base in Langley, Virginia with nothing to distract him but the blinding white of the walls and the pitch black mop of hair in the next bed which brought nothing but painful, badly repressed memories to mind, Curt decided fuzzily that he needed a drink. Finding his blazer pocket unusually empty of his flask, he came to the conclusion that there was no other choice than to sneak out of the facility, borrow a car and drive the hell away from Owen- no, that wasn’t right.

Drive to the nearest bar, that was what he meant to think, of course. He doesn't want to get away from Owen! Against his will, he began remembering that night on the stairs as he crept quietly out of the white room.  
\---

“That secret died the night you left me for dead,” Owen’s words were malicious, designed to cut deep.  
“Clearly,” Curt replied, fighting to not cry. First thing you learn at the academy, don’t show weakness to your enemy, don’t show fear, don’t fucking cry, Mega! God, it felt wrong to call Owen his enemy.  
“Here’s some advice, Curt,” Owen continued, in that patronising way of his, (Curt clutched his gun so tightly that the metal bit into the skin of his hand, grounding himself with the pain) “it’s called moving on,”  
He had to bite back a bitter laugh, here was the man who spent the last four years helping to create technology that would destroy him because Curt left a building that was going to blow up, fully believing that his partner, the only person he ever really trusted, was dead and it was his fault, talking about moving on! 

Owen’s next words felt like a bullet in his back; “Do give it a try,”

Curt wasn’t completely in control as he shot the gun out of Owen’s hand, but he was when he walked up the steps slowly, dangerously, like the agent he was trained to be, as his former lover pitifully bargained for his life. The last thing he heard with full clarity that night was Owen’s quiet, scared “what are you doing?” as he raised his gun, advancing till it was pressed against Owen’s chest and he could feel the other breathing, he was so close. Owen’s eyes widened, filled with fear and regret and familiarity, as Curt brought his other hand up and stabbed him in the neck with a tranquilliser dart pen.

Owen fell forward slowly, and Curt dropped the gun to catch him, desperately trying to ignore the familiar weight of his partner in his arms. It was only once they were slumped against the wall at the bottom of the steps, Owen breathing sluggishly into his neck, that Curt stopped fighting the tears and reality dissolved into a hazy, underwater state of dissociation.  
\---

When Curt came back to reality again, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and spots in his vision. As his sight slowly returned, he identified smart black, no nonsense heels in front of him. A quick glance up that sent him spinning back into dizziness again confirmed his worst fears that the owner of the heels was indeed his superior, Cynthia Houston. Had he not been about to faint, he would have realised the stark difference in her usual facial expression; instead of guarded apathy or seething anger, worry and pity was etched into her features.  
"Mega," Unfortunately, no amount of worry could quickly soften the tone of her voice after thirty years of being the head of the CIA. The aforementioned spy flinched ever so slightly, and looked away.  
"Agent Mega, why the hell are you on the floor and not in bed in the sick bay?"  
"Needed...a drink,"  
"For fuck's sake Curt, you don't need a drink, you need a fucking psych eval! Get your ass to the sick bay," Cynthia snapped, thoroughly unnerved by her best (and secretly favourite) spy's behaviour. She watched as Curt dragged himself to his feet, dazed. He followed her as she walked back to the infirmary, hand steadying himself against the wall. The hole in his mouth was getting bigger, harder to ignore, again. He touched his tongue to the soft, ripped flesh of his gum, where the tooth used to be and a sharp memory of a man in front of him with pliers ripped through his mind like shrapnel. As Curt got closer to the door, the man got closer to him, and the mask fell away, till it was Owen’s face laughing as his hands forced his jaw open and pulled, pushing and pulling until Curt felt the roots of his tooth snapping again, one by one. And suddenly, it fell away, and Curt was stepping through the doorway, past an unconscious Owen, to his bed, with a hole in his mouth and fear like a tide in his chest. 

A woman in a lab coat walked up to him, checking the chart at the end of his bed. She had clearly been sent by Cynthia, who was waiting at the other side of the room, obviously uncomfortable without a cigarette between her fingers or someone to shout at. Cold fingers touched his wrist and he whirled around, catching the hand and holding the fingers in a death grip, hyperventilating and terrified. The doctor who he’d just almost crushed the fingers of yelped, and pulled away but Curt held on, blinded by fear with only one thing in his head. Don’t let go or he’ll hurt you, don’t let go or he’ll hurt you, don’t let go-

Strong hands wrenched his own away from the young doctor, and then gripped his face. He cringed away, closing his eyes as he prepared for a blow that never came. Instead he heard Cynthia’s loud voice commanding him through the deafening haze of his racing heart.  
“Mega! Mega, look at me, you’re in a sick bay in Langley, Virginia. My name is Cynthia Houston, it is 1968, and you are not in danger,” she said loudly, and somehow the words registered and he surfaced in reality once more.  
“What? What...happened? Fuck, I’m sorry, i thought you were O- Someone else” Curt rambled, catching sight of the doctor rubbing her hand which was red. Cynthia sighed, and turned to speak to someone through the communicator in her ear.  
“Yep, he needs a different room and quickly, and Carvour will likely need a locked one when he has woken up, if my suspicions are true.” a beat of silence passed, “If you’re still not convinced that he has post traumatic stress, you’re a dumbass. Go! Arrange it!” With that, she walked out of the room, heels clicking loudly. 

Curt sank into his bed, exhausted. When the doctor hesitantly approached him again, he shrank away from her. “Please don’t touch me,” he asked, the phantom hands crawling on his skin taking no notice. Luckily, the doctor respected his wishes and retreated to the small office joined to the end of the room, leaving him alone to stare at the ceiling and try to quell the fear in his chest at the knowledge that Owen was a few empty beds over.

After three hours of silence, a slow movement to the left of him caught Curt’s eye. He turned, and froze. 

Owen was waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i'm trying to keep this historically accurate, but ptsd kinda wasn't a very well known thing in the 60's and this fic is about fixing their issues lmao so we're taking some creative liberty in places :) thanks for reading! 
> 
> also, the title for this fic in my google docs is just 'teeeeeth' :)


	2. lets try our luck, i'll stand on the edge, give me a shove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from a wistful waltz by teddy hyde :)

_ 1955 - San Francisco  _

_ It was a warm night in late August, and the cheap motel room Curt and Owen were in was unbearably warm. They had the balcony doors wide open and a slight breeze was struggling to shift the old, moth eaten curtains. Curt was seated on one of the beds, writing up notes for his mission report, handwriting shaky and cramped as usual. Owen was just in view through the balcony doorway, cutting an elegant silhouette in the navy blue sky. A faint glow shone on his face from the dim insight lights spilling out as he turned to face Curt, still holding a lit cigarette. As he stared at his partner, Curt was struck with the familiar realisation that Owen would not be out of place in an art museum, lounging in an ornate frame with his calm smile and graceful movements. He made fighting look like dancing. Fuck, Curt was in love with this man. Mission notes discarded and forgotten, he made his way over to Owen and took his hand, safe under cover of the dull halflight. Owen smiled, stubbing out his cigarette and moving further into the room, pulling Curt closer to him.  _

_ “Hi,” Curt breathed, as they stood chest to chest, Owen’s arms around him. _

_ “Hello,” Owen replied just as quiet and gentle, a jarring contrast to the suave, confident man he portrayed himself as out in the world, “you alright, love?” he smelled like smoke. Curt used to hate that smell, but now it filled his head with reminders of his beloved. He nodded, laying his head on the taller man’s chest and slowly closing his eyes as a hand threaded itself into his hair. How lucky he was to see this version of Owen, so bare and vulnerable in their secret world. _

_ “How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,” Owen murmured, eyes soft and painful. Curt made a noise and mumbled into the other’s shirt, “Shakespeare, you only quote that when you’re sad,” _

_ “Yes, well, I am sad. Doesn’t it break your heart to have to hide? Why must I be ashamed of the one thing that brings me peace in this world? Why do we have to sneak around like thieves in the night to love and be loved in return? I see nothing dishonest, immoral, or god forbid perverse about our love.” Owen replied, and Curt nodded, raising his head and meeting the other’s brown eyes.  _

_ “Fuck Eisenhower.”  _

_ His statement startled a laugh out of his lover, who agreed, echoing the sentiment. Curt poked the corner of Owen’s smiling mouth, grinning. “You’re so pretty when you laugh, it’s criminal.”  _

_ Owen’s smile turned wry, “Unfortunately, yes. It is,”. _

_ Curt pulled him over to the bed in the corner, shoving the case files onto the floor.  _

_ “Come on, we can be angry about the world in bed, it’s more comfortable.” _

_ “Agent Curt Mega, are you trying to entice an innocent man such as myself into your bed?” Owen teased as the other flopped onto the mattress. _

_ “Dunno, is it working?” Curt snarked back, burying himself under the thin sheets as he watched Owen climb into bed next to him.  _

_ “Yes, love, it’s working,” Owen laughed, wrapping an arm around him. Shifting his head onto Owen’s chest, Curt sighed. _

_ “I’d like to think that maybe the world could change and one day, people like us can exist without hiding.” he said softly as he tangled his fingers with Owen’s. _

_ “Maybe one day. I don’t think it’s going to happen any time soon though, my dear,” _

_ “It’s nice to think about though, not feeling wrong.” _

_ There was a stretched out beat of meaningful silence, and the air flooded with the remnants of long faded bruises, slurs thrown like stones, a bloodsoaked history.  _

_ “Yeah, it is.” _

1961 - Virginia

Curt moved fast, darting into the nurse’s office in seconds and telling himself that he wasn’t running away. Several medical staff turned to stare at him, silence falling instantly. 

“Uh, he’s, um, waking up, thought you should know,” he muttered, looking away from the small group of people awkwardly. He hated that he had to fight away the feeling of being trapped as a few doctors nodded and thanked him politely, getting up presumably to deal with Owen. A voice snapped from behind him, and he whirled around, heart rate rushing up to what was probably not a healthy beat.

“Mega. Come with me,” Cynthia was already moving, and Curt had no choice but to follow. As he walked through the rows of empty beds, he tried not to catch sight of Owen, but Curt had never been any good at not looking at Owen. They locked eyes for a second, and the unreadable expression in his former partner’s eyes sent a chill into Curt’s bones and another ache into his heart. The door felt like an escape and Curt felt like a coward as he paced the familiar halls behind his boss until they reached her office. "Sit there and shut up," Cynthia hissed, tapping her finger discreetly on the desk next to a seemingly mundane file, signalling to her agent to be careful with his words, because that file was definitely bugged and every word he said could be used against him if he wasn’t extremely careful. 

__

“So,” Cynthia regarded him with a gaze full of guarded emotion, “Owen Carvour is alive, and going in for questioning shortly. You,” she pointed at him with a cigarette she had yet to light, and Curt felt a shred of normality settle itself around his shoulders like a familiar blanket, “were the only witness to his resurfacing who isn’t dead or whatever the hell Tatiana Sloshno is. Either way, we can’t get an explanation out of them.” She stopped talking and after an embarrassingly long moment, Curt realised that she was expecting him to answer, preferably with an accurate account of the events. Unluckily for her, Curt was not about to tell her that he’d almost killed his ex lover who was also the deadliest man alive, and oh, by the way, one of the CIA’s former best agents was gay! So he carefully gave a heavily censored version of events, recounting the existence of Chimera but not Owen’s involvement in it, a brief admission that a tranquilliser had to be used, and that Tatiana had found and destroyed the first compound of many. Cynthia accepted it without voicing her many questions, uncomfortably aware of the unseen people listening to his every word and thanking a god she didn’t believe in that his shaking hands and nervous movements weren’t being broadcast like a confession as well. Or maybe Cynthia could just read Curt too easily after all the years of working with him. She wearily regarded him as he faded away from reality once again, lost in memories. She’d be a damn awful spy if that alone didn’t tell her that more had happened than what Curt had revealed, not to mention the report she had received from the medical unit that clearly showed the telltale signs of a nasty run in with some rather immoral interrogation tactics. Premolars don’t just get knocked out with punches. 

__

“Alright, get out of my office, I'm still deciding whether or not you’re still employed. Go wait in conference room one. Carvour will join you.” Cynthia snapped, noting the fear that flashed briefly on the agent’s face before he sank back into emotionless obedience. Fuck, that was unsettling. Just days ago Curt had been cocky, sarcastic, replying to her insults with clever quips. Yeah, that had been a mask as well, but this one was so much worse. Now, as she watched the spy nod and leave, she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it would be for the best if Curt never had to see her office again, before something broke him for good.

__

Curt couldn’t really remember the walk from Cynthia’s office to the conference room. Most people would find that rather worrying, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was facing Owen, trying to put the two versions of him together but his brain refused to comply. There was his Owen, the one who mocked him and held him softly between missions and kisses, who shared his pain and his fear while they patched each other up and stole time together, the one who showed up in the corner of the mirror or next to him on the couch sometimes. The one who loved him. And then there was New Owen, the one who yelled and hated and  _ hurt,  _ who knew every one of his weak points and exactly how to hit them _.  _ The one who didn’t hesitate to put a gun to Curt’s head, with cold eyes that hid so much and a hand that shook when it wasn’t aiming a firearm. Nothing felt real anymore. 

__

The sharp pain of his fingernails digging into the bruises on his arms dragged him out of his own head long enough to realise that the door was opening, and he sat up straighter, intently examining the blank white wall opposite him so he didn’t have to look at the door. It creaked as it moved, almost loud enough to conceal the footsteps heading towards the table. He looked towards the sound to see Owen stood there. He looked tired and out of place. 

“Can I sit..?” he asked awkwardly, trailing off once Curt nodded. Moving to sit down seemed painful, judging by Owen’s slow movements; he could sympathise. Four years out of the field still wasn’t enough time to forget the aftereffects of a tranquilliser dart. Curt studied Owen’s face; he looked exhausted, and there was a collection of tiny scars round his right eye, outlining his eyebrow. His hair was longer, and some guilty part of Curt still wanted to run his hands through it, could still feel how soft it used to be against the skin of his face. There were dark shadows around his eyes, made darker by how pale he was after who knows how long under that mask. A bruise rode high on his cheekbone, flushed an angry reddish brown and tinged with yellow. He looked older, sadder, angrier, than Curt remembered. His eyes were still as piercing as ever, still as sharp, and Curt still thought they were the prettiest things he’d ever seen.

__

“What’d you tell them when they interrogated you?” Curt forced himself to ask, the fear of being found out forcing itself through the fear of talking to him. Owen looked surprised that Curt had spoken, waiting a moment to think before he answered. 

“All they wanted was intel on Chimera, I told them what I told you. Not that it matters anyway, I’ll be dead soon enough.” Owen talked about his own mortality in a frightfully apathetic manner, one that Curt often took in reference to his own, but never expected of Owen Carvour. 

“Why? What do you mean you’ll be dead soon?” 

“Think about it, Chimera will find out I betrayed them soon enough and come tie up their loose end, or the CIA will figure out that I'm the deadliest man and send me down for life. And then, if that happens, Chimera will kill me somehow anyway. Ears everywhere, eyes too. I should know.” The laugh that forced its way through Owen’s teeth was slightly manic, betraying paranoia rather than undying loyalty to his former organisation.

“How have you betrayed them?” Curt asked hesitantly, confused.

“I was never supposed to let you know who I was, I was never supposed to reveal anything more than who they were, a vague idea of what they were doing, but I suppose I was feeling reckless.” Owen answered wryly, “and in Chimera, one mistake and you’re dead.”

__

Before Curt could reply, Barb burst into the room, looking frantic. 

“Oh thank God! Cynthia has more sense than anyone in this building, I swear! Including you two!” she exclaimed, ignoring the looks of confusion and concern sent her way. Curt tried to ignore the shot of adrenaline that coursed through his veins at the slam of the door, and asked,

“What are you talking about?”

“Cynthia sent you to room 1, not room 2. There’s a ton of live recording devices in two, the higher ups were waiting for you, hoping to catch you out!” Barb rushed her words, clearly they didn’t have much time, “You gotta get out of here, Chimera sent a coded message, there is a 90% chance that it's blackmail about you guys. If that gets out, Curt, you’ll be IMIA as soon as you set foot in the field, and Owen’s legally dead anyway, not to mention all the classified info he already knows. That’s an assassin’s field day!” Fuck. IMIA, intentionally missing in action. The fate of the spy who steps too far out of line too high up the ladder. You get a dangerous mission, they get you after you’ve done it, the files are recovered from your dead body in the hotel room they booked for you, and the sniper comes with the room service.

__

“Shit, okay, what are we doing? What’s our game plan here?” Curt rambled, getting up. Owen stayed in his chair and put his head in his hands, seeming more exhausted than scared for his life. 

“There’s a safehouse in rural France. Both of you can stay there, it’s off the records of both MI6 and the CIA,” Barb replied frantically, “It’s under this secret organisation that protects veterans and agents who either needed an out or got hits on them. It operates outside of state and government eyes, as under the radar as possible. It’s your only chance,”

Curt took a moment to process this new information. Him and Owen. In a safehouse together for the foreseeable future. The cocktail of terror and nostalgia swirling in his chest was proving tough to ignore as he and his old partner followed Barb slowly through the building, acting as unsuspicious as possible. Owen seemed completely unbothered by the whole situation but Curt could see the tiny signs of paranoia. Soon, the trio had managed to leave through a side door, ducking through an alleyway and onto a road with a car parked at its side. Barb opened one of the doors and gestured for the other two to get in, before walking round and sitting in the driver's seat. The next few hours were a blur, mostly silent car journeys where Curt stared out of the window and tried to stay in the present while the man next to him managed to bring up memories just by moving his hand. Once, about two hours into the journey, Curt woke up from the uneasy half asleep state he’d fallen into with a start, and almost spoken Owen’s name aloud, having resurfaced from yet another flashback of missions from years ago. He just hoped that the safehouse had bedroom doors with locks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i listened to the bare a pop opera soundtrack writing this and it shows
> 
> sorry that most of this is kinda just,, things happening, im gonna get into owen and curt's trauma responses more in the next chapter :) so angst time :D
> 
> a lot of this references the lavender scare and executive order 10450 :)


	3. i'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 505 by the arctic monkeys :)  
> content warnings in the end notes
> 
> alternative chapter name is and they were roommates lmao
> 
> also thank u v much to everyone who's left comments!!! they bring me sm joy :'))))))

_ 1955 - London, Vauxhall Square, MI6 Headquarters _

_ Owen walked into the office holding his usual cup of coffee, and to the casual onlooker, nothing would seem different this morning than any other. But there was a decidedly more cheerful note in Agent Carvour's voice as he conversed with his colleagues. When asked, he simply replied that he had been assigned a rather interesting case that he was leaving for today, but in reality that was only a fraction of it. He could hardly wait for the summons to his handler's office, which was very different. Briefing sessions were usually tolerable at the best of times and mind numbingly boring at the worst, but this one was a meeting for a partner mission with the CIA, based in Europe. It had been confirmed that the spy from the other agency had arrived that morning and was now in the building, awaiting further instruction.  _

_ The phone on Owen's desk rang, and he picked it up at the second ring, holding in a smile as he was told to get to the briefing room pronto, and not to forget the case files. He picked them up from their spot on his desk, along with his coffee, and made his way slowly to the room. Before he entered, he steeled himself; any trace of happiness and anticipation were wiped from his features, leaving behind only the stern and quietly confident spy who had absolutely no feelings whatsoever for his American partner apart from a casual friendship formed throughout their long track record of successful missions.  _

_ He opened the door and there sat Agent Curt Mega of the CIA, smiling at his boss and shifting Owen's heart rate imperceptibly higher as he walked in and that charming grin was directed at him.  _

_ "Ah, Carvour. Have a seat," his boss, Richard Brown, said, indicating the chair next to Curt, "you brought the file, yes?" _

_ Brown was a serious, no nonsense type of man who didn't trust anyone as far as he could throw them, which was probably the best way to be in their profession. He had replaced Owen's last boss six months ago, who had left very suddenly after certain rumors had started circulating about him and a polite clerk from the bank named Thomas. The whole affair had left a bitter taste in Owen's mouth and a heavy weight of dread in his mind, made all the more unsavoury by the words he'd dare not touch, but were thrown around the office by his co-workers like paper planes. Words that made him long to take Curt's hand and flee to some lost nook of the world where nobody could hurt them.  _

_ "Yes sir, I took the liberty of making a few rough notes and plans as well." Owen replied, taking a seat and handing the folder over. He made the mistake of catching Curt's eye as Brown skimmed through his notes, and it took all of his will power to look away and twist the tiny smile off of his lips that had crept there unbidden. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Curt smirking. The bastard was probably having the time of his life. But really, who could blame Owen for acting like a teenager with a crush when this was the first time he'd seen Curt in six months? Certainly not Curt himself, as he was just the same.  _

_ "Well, I'm impressed, Carvour, these plans hold some merit. I'm sure you're both aware of the mission details, but I'm going to run through the most important ones…" Brown's voice did it's best to be as boring and hard to listen to as possible, but Owen still managed to take in most of the details. He was hyper aware of the man beside him, innocently tapping his fingers against his knee as he listened intently. He felt a tiny nudge against his foot, and looked down subtly to see Curt's black leather shoe hitting against his brown one. Shooting a tiny glance at his partner, he tapped back and was overjoyed when he saw Curt hide a playful smile. He couldn’t wait for this meeting to be over! _

_ Two hours later, they were free of both the briefing and the equipment labs, and had the rest of the day to themselves for planning and preparing. They headed quickly to Owen’s tiny flat on Sloane Street, a thirty minute walk from Vauxhall Cross, and the quiet between them was comfortable. It becomes a habit as a spy to keep talking to the minimum when in public, and Curt and Owen were no different, preferring the safety of Owen’s living quarters where it was just them and they could leave the world at the door for a while. _

_ That night, with Curt asleep in his arms, Owen stared at his love’s face and wondered how anyone could look upon such a soft display of love and affection amidst the cruelty of their lives and call it sinful.  _

1961 - SAFEHOUSE IN RURAL FRANCE

Curt's hands were shaking. They shook a lot these days, ever since Owen's fall if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was. The doctors had told him it was caused by a combination of the shock of losing a partner and the damage he did to his body going back to dig through the burning rubble. It's the alcohol, his mum had said, and Cynthia had just condescendingly asked if he could still hold a gun. Curt had said nothing. He stared at his hands numbly and wound his fingers together in his lap, sitting in a small, claustrophobic feeling safehouse in the middle of nowhere. His room was plain and grey, with only the bare essential furnishings; a bed, rickety chest of drawers, and a chair. Standard. Efficient. Nowhere to hide.

Owen hadn't said a word since leaving Richmond International Airport in Sandston and didn't seem to be planning on breaking his silence any time soon. It wasn't that he was ignoring anyone, just that no one really knew what to say, Curt especially. Barb had filled the tense silence of the car with chatter about the organisation that was helping hide them, but she'd left at the airport with a promise to Curt that she'd tell Tatiana what had happened and informed them both that a representative from the organisation would arrive within a few days of them being there to tell them more. 

It had been four hours since they'd arrived and Curt felt guilty. Guilty for being relieved that the man in the taxi on the way over wasn't a talker, guilty for not telling Barb about what Owen had done to him in Monte Carlo, guilty for being scared of Owen, and for still kind of maybe slightly treacherously loving him anyway. He moved slowly to lie down on the thin bed. He was jet lagged beyond belief, sleep should be well within his grasp, but it still escaped him. At least it was better than nightmares, he supposed after a while of laying on the uncomfortable mattress and staring at the ceiling. Whoever has said you can never remember dreams had never dreamed their own memories over and over again, each time more warped than the last; Curt's brain was going to have a field day with all the new moments to replay. 

He got up and walked through the main area of the safehouse to the kitchen. Making sure his feet made no sound in the dark of the house, he quietly opened cupboards one by one, searching for any sort of liquor, he'd been in enough safehouses to know that there would be at least one bottle of whiskey stashed away somewhere. Somewhere in the tangled mess of his thoughts was a voice remarking that maybe drinking at one in the morning while someone who possibly still wants to kill him is trapped in the same building was maybe not the best idea he'd ever had, but it was quickly and efficiently snuffed out by all of the other thoughts crawling and writhing around in his head like some sort of eldritch beast of self hatred, stale terror, and badly hidden alcohol addiction. Finally, Curt found a bottle of whiskey in the back of a sliding unit filled with miscellaneous tins and bottles with long shelf lives, and allowed himself a small, cracked smile as he thought of the quietness the liquor would grant his aching head. Then maybe he could face the looming black hole of a question that was Owen Carvour. 

A mug would have to do for this pitiful session of shortening his life one tiny action at a time because he couldn't find anything else and his hands were shaking so much that he had to put the bottle down twice while pouring. His tongue brushed up against the hole in his gum again, triggering a wave of nausea and adrenaline that Curt couldn't control. Tremors raced up and down the skin of his arms as he raised the mug to his lips, shuffling over to the kitchen table and collapsing into an old wooden chair. It was a familiar burn that chased down his throat, safe and comforting within all of the changes and revelations of the past week. He longed for the safety he used to reminisce about, the warmth of his lover’s arms around him, and though the memory was chilled with the knowledge of Owen’s supposed death, it was so much more comforting than the truth that now stripped him bare and defenseless. 

An hour passed sadly, and the bottle drained. Curt’s hands weren’t shaking as much and his thoughts had slowed down to a comforting white noise of reminiscing. He could faintly smell the cigarettes Owen used to smoke, and laughed at the cruelty of his brain, hallucinating a man who was alive as if he was still dead. The noise that left his lips sounded more like a sob. The smoke in the air was always the first sign that he’d appear, in the corner or slotted in a doorway, staring and smiling. Curt would smile back, baring his teeth and his throat like a wild creature, wounded and wishing for death, and Owen would advance, never close enough to touch, no, Curt didn’t deserve any semblance of his touch, not even the ghostly remnants of skin on skin conjured up by his own mind. 

How cruel would it be, how unkind the fates to conjure up this vision of the old Owen, when the real Owen was a few doors away? Burning alive with hatred, rather than love, but alive all the same, and for that Curt would be eternally grateful. The understanding that he would still love Owen with his knife cold against the skin of his throat, every part of him singing with loathing towards him, should shock Curt to the core but instead it was as familiar as breathing, as blinking, as his heart beating, as running his fingers across Owen’s face and knowing every ridge and plane of muscle and flesh like muscle memory, like it was his own. Curt’s head sank to rest against the table, and he closed his eyes, knowing that Owen would probably be sat there next to him when he opened them again, if the singed smell of charred clothes and burning buildings that had just appeared (second sign) was anything to go by. And finally, for the first time since Owen revealed himself to him, he started to cry.

Crying did not come easily to Curt. The portrayal of emotions was deadly as a spy, such a sign of weakness was practically the same as putting the barrel of your enemy’s gun between your eyes for them. He could still remember how terribly weak he felt the first time he cried in front of Owen, it had been a disastrous fortnight long mission that had ended with civilian blood on their hands. That night, he could no more have stopped his treacherous tears from spilling than stop the sun from burning through the sky. Owen had gathered up all of his sharp, shattered pieces and glued them all together within his arms, and they’d watched the sunrise after wiping the blood from each other's skin, finding solidarity in both the horrors that they had witnessed together and the warmth of their bodies.

Now, as his silent sobs convulsed through him like electric pulses, the weakness returned tenfold. Suddenly the reality that he could never go back to the CIA hit him like a brick wall. What was he without his job? Nothing, that’s what. At least on the job he sometimes did good things, right? He had some shred of worth when he was property of the United States government. Without that he was just a sad excuse of a man, a biblical abomination with the blood of innocents and transgressors alike staining every inch of his skin. How many lives had he taken at the beck and call of his government? How many children had he made orphans of? How many spouses had he killed? He sat up to take another drink from his mug, staring resolutely ahead of him and not at the chair next to him, or the dark doorway in the corner. Who knows how many ghosts he might see there? But apparently, some apparitions demand to be seen, because in the few moments it took Curt to clumsily wipe the old tears from his face and drain his mug, Owen had appeared in the chair opposite him, looking awkward and deathly and just a little bit like he didn't know how he got there. Now, perhaps some small part of Curt's brain, (the one that whispered about how good of an idea it would be to blow his own brains out with his standard CIA issued pistol, stay in the building he was going to blow up, or run in front of enemy crossfire) suspected that maybe this could be the real Owen in front of him and not a hallucination. But Curt was desperate for a glimpse of the Owen that still loved him, and was so used to the company of the spectre his brain had created in his darkest moments that it was expected now, and maybe it still hadn't quite set in yet that Owen was alive and in the same building, and maybe Curt was just so damn lonely that he was willing to set himself on fire just to feel warm. So Curt looked at the figure in front of him and smiled.

“I miss you.”

Owen’s hand twitched where it lay on the table between them, and the curve of his spine became just a touch sharper. But he didn’t speak.

“And it’s so stupid that I do, because you’re asleep down the hall, and I’m talking to myself, again! And I fucked it up, again. No surprise there, though” Curt could hardly get the words past the lump in his throat. Owen didn’t move, and Curt didn’t dare try catching his eye, even if he wasn’t real. He put his head back down on the table, closing his eyes. “I understand why you hate me, and oh God, you  _ should _ hate me. You could kill me and you’d- I’d-” he choked on his words, tripping over his thoughts. “I wouldn’t mind if you killed me, I know I deserve it.” The words were soft, earnest, said like a confession of love or perhaps sin. Curt had been blurring the lines between the two since the first time he ached for what he shouldn’t want, fifteen and kissing a boy in the shadows of a party; cheap alcohol, a new enticing taste on his tongue. As he ran from the house minutes later, he wondered why it would ever be considered unholy to love. That silly notion was beaten out of him three days later, when a mob from that night with sharp eyes and bruising fists caught him behind the town school. Washing the blood from his face had felt like penance for his transgressions.

Decades later, kissing Owen felt simultaneously like purging his sins utterly and falling from grace and into damnation.

“I must disgust you, by now. I’m so sorry.” Curt stood up, shakily, pretended that he didn’t nearly fall as he stepped away from the table and started to walk down the hallway back to his room, still clutching his mug between trembling fingers.

Owen watched him go and slowly wiped away the tears from his cheeks. He needed another cigarette.

__  
  


“Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.”” - Oscar Wilde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings  
> \- alcohol  
> \- references to suicidal thoughts   
> \- religious stuff is discussed


End file.
